


Detective Dick: Hot Case

by Darklady



Series: Hornet-verse [9]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, I like to call it character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:04:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another day in the life of an average Bludhaven cop.</p><p>Ya right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detective Dick: Hot Case

Friday. 5:15 PM. 95 degrees in the shade. No shade. Half the city is leaving early to escape the unseasonable heat. Unfortunately, all that does is start the traffic jams earlier. Traffic jams like the one Amy and I are now sitting in.

From the radio chatter it sounds like every route from the city has at least one accident. Command is holding morning shift over to handle the traffic. The order draws the usual grumbles. Shitty duty, even when the asphalt isn't hot enough to fry through the cheap black wingtips. 

Me? I *wish* I was dodging traffic. At least I'd be outside. Moving. Instead the Sergeant and I have drawn car patrol.

Wish I knew who I pissed off to get this. Someone merciless, I answer myself. I wouldn't send the dog out in this weather. If I even owned a dog.

I catch a glimpse of one of the motorcycle jockeys leaning against the sound wall. His face is white. Just how hot is it on the slab?

Then again - this could be a thank you. I could be pulling his job.

Amy waves her clipboard though the open window, trying to lure in a little cool air. Not that it's any cooler outside - but live in hope.

"Cheap bastards."

I don't know if she means Redhorn and Company or our not-so-esteemed City Council. Apt either way.

She takes a deep pull from her water bottle. "You think they'd spring for AC."

Hell, I *had* thought it would be standard. Like the stupid cigarette lighter. Lord knows I never asked for one of those. How far out of their way did these crooks have to go to get something that basic taken out? Of course? Maybe the AC is standard in the newer cars. I give the cracking vinyl a tap. If this clunker got any older Bruce would have me restoring it as a 'classic'.

"Stupid politics." I mutter, just to be agreeable. 

"Stupid patrol," she answers. Maybe to the point. It's not like either of us is really listening.

It's too hot for conversation. Too hot for police work. Too hot for anything. I can't even distract myself with my usual game of 'spot the perp'. I like to keep a list. Sort of a Nightwing 'road game'. See how many of them I can bust later, tucked between the big crimes. Today? Today staring at the waves rising off the sidewalk just hurts my eyes. Not that it matters. Most of the punks are even hotter then we are. Those who can't pull the bucks for a friendly bar are slumped into whatever shade the alleys still have.

The radio crackles. I'm ignoring that too until Amy says "Damn."

"Problem?" 

"Burglary call to the Projects."

"'Kay" I peal my shirt off of the vinyl. She means the 'Melvin Gardens Estates', aka Council Housing, aka a public slum. The Haven's own contribution to high-crime housing. "I though calls there were regular."

Hell, I thought they had their own *unit*. Must have been taken out in the last budget cuts.

"For 186's yeh." By which she means...public intoxication, public disturbance. All the nuisance calls that are guaranteed with too many people in too little space.

"Yeh." She continues, jotting down the complaint address as it comes over the radio. "But for those they send most of a squad. Especially when things are this..." A wave out the window finishes her sentence. "This is 'report of stolen property' - so we go in alone."

Bad news. Nobody has been getting any sleep - cops included - and tempers are getting short. I give her a smile. "I'll watch your back."

"I'd rather have someone to watch the car."

I know what she means. You'd think a black and white would be hands off, but some of these kids? I remember Bruce's story of Jason trying to 'jack the Batmobile, and my smile grows wider. "Well, look on the good side. If they tag the car - we can head in early."

"Always Mr. Sunshine."

(vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv)

We pull in up by the main 'plaza'. Right under the no parking sign. Who's gonna ticket a black and white?

Still a long hike across the open concrete. Supposed to be a 'public gathering place'. In this heat? All it's gathering is garbage. Even the local toughs who might claim the turf have better places to be. Probably they've tossed the shooting galleries out of the basement and moved downstairs for the duration. 

I spot a few window units clamped down towards the back. Makes sense. Close enough to come up quick if some other gang moves in. Far enough back to be out of the direct heat. I spot the lookout in the third floor window. Poor kid. He's gotta be roasting.

One car must not be enough to get their attention. Clearly not enough for a raid. That, or they have a police band radio and they know why we're here. Either way, no one comes up to challenge us.

Just as good. Heat is making me rabid.

Elevators in these places are always a bad gamble, so we have to climb the twelve floors to our complainant’s apartment. The fireproof stairwell is an oven. Bad, because that makes the stench of stale urine almost overwhelming. But also good, because it means the shooters haven't moved in here. It's hard to move fast when you're stepping over bodies.

Twelfth floor hall is a little better. Cleaner. The walls are washed – at least up to arm's reach - and the faded linoleum smells of Clorox and the lemon sort of ammonia. Not Alfred, but someone's trying.

There's a small window at the far end. Grill, no glass. Must be hell on the gas bill in winter. Right now it gives some promise of a breeze. The window, plus? I count down the hall. It looks like every other door is propped open. Including? I count carefully because the door plaques are mostly missing. Yes, that is number 14.

"Open door?" I look at Amy. "When she's just had a theft?"

"If she had a unit, they would have stolen that too."

Makes sense. Although? I scan the flimsy door. Torn at the corner, and clearly plywood rather than solid oak. An 'inside' door. I could get though it in a minute - without the suit. Faster with it, since the one window I can see is also open wide. 

I shake my head. Given the lack of security, I think I should be counting the number of things that don't get stolen. Probably a shorter list.

The 'resident' is sleeping on the sofa. Black female. Middle age. Thin but normal thin. Probably not using. Red streaked hair. Not a recent dye job - the roots are showing. Decent looking. Enough so that I wonder what she's doing here.

Sofa is... not new, but also decent. Clean slip cover. Not-so-clean rug. Matching recliner in the other corner, pointed at a bare strip of wall. Thus the theft report.

Anyone could just walk in. But - rules are rules.

I swing the door back. Just enough to get a good angle.

*knock knock*

She startles up. "Huhhh?"

Amy steps into the doorway. "Ms. Louise Bradford?"

"Wassit?" The lady - presumably Louise Bradford - shakes her head. "What you want?"

"May we come in?"

"I donn..."

"Excuse me, ma'am." I lean over Amy's shoulder, giving the lady my best 'Brucie' smile. "You reported a stolen television?"

It must work, because she waves us in.

"Yep." She points to the previously observed bare spot in the decor. "Bran' new 58 incher my son bought me."

"Um. Ms. Bradford". Amy paces the room, a bit stiff. "Do you have the receipts? Or the papers that came with the set?"

"You think'n...."

Bad sound there. I jump in. "Just that the manual might have the TV's  
registration number. We need to identify the unit." She's still frowning so I turn up the smile voltage. "In order to return it."

“Um. Sergeant Roehbach?" I give my partner a 'friendly' glare and a nudge towards the empty wall. "Physical evidence?"

Amy's return look asks 'are you an idiot'. Because we both know the return rate on stolen TV's is approximately 'don't ask'. Most people only report the crime so they can file the insurance claim. But - in this case? We both know that wouldn't be a smart idea to bring up – because there is no way this Ms. Bradford has insurance. Certainly not the kind that covers stolen TV's. So she's shit out of luck. 

Looking around, I get the impression that not a new phenomenon.

Still, shrug and walk is not going to make us any friends. Amy knows that. She hoists the evidence kit. "You want me to take a photo?"

Her tone tells me she's at least willing to *look* interested. Standing here is slightly more comfortable then roasting in the car.

Louise Bradford beams, suddenly hopeful. "No need. I got one." She bustles towards a wall full of cheaply framed Polaroids and pulls one down. "Here. That's my son Billy."

I take it. Louise and – so I gather - her son standing on either side of a large Mitsubishi. Twenty-something young man. Not bad looking. Pressed denim - no gold chains. Saturday garb for anyone from Jim to Tim. Short hair. Glasses. Not geek - but not cool either. The sort who might well honestly have bought a TV for his mother.

I hand the picture over to Amy and go back to work. No sign of entrance, and not much of the TV itself. Just a cut electrical line leading to the window.

"You know." I look back over my shoulder at the lady of the house. "You really shouldn't be pirating cable..."

"Grayson," the Sergeant growls.

I ignore her, grinning at Louise. "But as you're not now, I suppose I don't need to report that.

Louise beams. "You are just the sweetest boy!"

"Grayson!" A deeper growl. "We have the report, so...."

Louise sends Sergeant Amy a look of open disgust. "Is that all you gonna do?" She turns to me, voice dropping half a note. Not enough not to carry, but... "Not worth much, is she." Louise half-whispers. "I never did cotton to these lady cops."

I am very careful *not* to grin. "Excuse me, Ms. Bradford" My most professional voice. Which still won't be enough to keep me out of trouble back in the car if Amy gets one look at my eyes. OK, it's funny. At least - to me it's funny. Amy looks like she's half-way to an aneurysm. "That picture of your son." I point to another shot. Clearly taken at the same day as the first, this showed two men unloading the still-boxed set from the back of a small sedan. "When was it taken."

"Just two weeks ago - like I said." She hands me the photo. "My son Billy and his friend Jake brought over the TV for my birthday.”

I squint. This is a wide shot, showing a good quarter of the building. The front, and also part of one side. "May I borrow this?" I ask. "Just for a few minutes?

"Why sure honey." She leans closer. "What you gonna do?"

I hold up my hand - fingers spread - as I head for the door. "Five minutes."

"Yeh Grayson." Amy give me her own version of *the look* as soon as we're back in the stairwell. "What DO you think your doing?"

"You call Central on this?" My tone makes it a pretty strong request. "I'll bet this isn't the only personal property theft from this wing in this last few weeks."

"Cheep bet. So?"

"So?" I tap the photo. "I'm going to take a walk."

(vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv)

Three minutes later I'm standing in the general parking lot looking up at the building. Bingo!

"Sergeant ?" I wave over at Amy.

"What now?"

"If you'd come over here with me?"

"What?" She comes. Half-shuffling - enough to show how not happy she is with whatever my game is - but willing enough to keep my out of 'discipline' territory. This is just body language for 'I'm hot, I'm grumpy, an I'm not staying here for overtime.'

"Look at that window. The one with the AC unit."

She shrugs. "Someone's pirating cable. Like half the wing."

"Cable, satellite, and that looks like a DSL line." Plus, I add mentally, a tap wire straight up to the electrical. Somebody knows how to climb. Pretty decent electrician too, if they managed all that without getting electrocuted.

"So?"

"Pretty pricey service for the Projects"

"It's not like they're paying for it."

"But it's all going to something." Something very like the CD player, speakers, computer, and game systems that have been reported as stolen in the last week. "Now look at this." I hold out the photo and point. "Two weeks ago - the window is empty."

"Maybe someone moved in?"

"If they could afford those toys, they could afford to live somewhere else." I try some quick math. Now days I pay some of those bills. I don't know this district, but going by my service bills that bundle of wire service comes to well over a hundred a month. Not counting telephone, which is also being rigged. Of course, they might be skipping the 'premium ' channels. Yeh - right. 

I slip the photo safely into my pocket. "Someone's been shopping - and I don't think  
they were using American Express."

(vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv)

Social Services isn't the Oracle, but some days they manage. Two minutes and we have the tenant’s name. Apartment 602. Mr. John Brown. Right. Practically insulting. You think they could at least *work* on their aliases. But if this is an old scam? Maybe he's running out of tags.

I look at Amy. "Do you think he'll let us in?"

"Around here?"

"Then I guess we're just going to have to get a warrant." I reach for the radio, sending up a small prayer of thanks for universal greed. "Suspected theft of public utilities."

(vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv)

Another hike up the stairs from hell. At least our perp has the courtesy to be staying on a lower floor.

This door is closed. Naturally. Mr. Sticky-fingers has *two* window units. Main room and bathroom. Damn flash for a studio apartment. I wonder how far he went for those. Hopefully outside the building, or our returning the units could make the man's remaining time as a tenant... eventful. I don't think the other residents are going to be in a forgiving mood. Not in this heat.

Of course, soon that won’t be our friend Brown's problem. He'll be moving to a place with central air.

He opens the door when we knock. 

Skinny guy. Late twenties - maybe. Young enough for acne. Bad hair cut. Might have had an initial shaved into the side before he let it grow out. Probably intentional, given his 'name change'. Or maybe he just hasn't wanted to share any of his take with the local pawnshop. Dirty t-shirt with a couple of cigarette burns. Matches the burns on the orange velour sofa. And the brown shag carpet. You think even this idiot would know better then to smoke where he could fall asleep.

For that matter, you think a thief would be theft- conscious, but he hasn't bothered to install an eyepiece the door. Like Bruce says – A stupid and cowardly lot.

Amy and I take one look through the doorway and.... it's like Christmas.

I hand over the papers as we step inside. "Houston - I think we have landed."

Brown tries for the door. Flight - not fight. OK. Better for us then when they resist. But still, I always prefer a quiet surrender. I snag the chump and Amy cuffs him. Reads him Miranda and dumps him on the cruddy sofa.

His phone is working. Likely also stolen, from the shabby hook-up. No biggie. It works well enough when I call for a pick-up.

Amy is pacing out the room, running a fast tally of the 'suspicious' electronics. "Quite the Sharper Image setup."

Not quite. The 'entertainment center' is evident K-mart. Black plastic and fake-wood laminate shelving. Teen-dude style. Even here most folks can probably buy better. But the stuff *on* those shelves? The stuff stacked around the walls? I spot Louise Bradford's TV right off. Center shelf. Now it has four speakers hooked up. Surround sound.

Damn big speakers. I tilt them forward, looking for serial numbers. No  
back padding. Even if he weren't robbing them, the neighbors might go for  
seeing this guy arrested. At least the ones who still have their hearing.

"These on the list?" I ask.

Amy flips though her notes. "Apartment 809. Last week Wednesday." She points to the shelf above the TV. "They reported the stereo too."

OK. So returning it won't be that much of an improvement to the noise level. I pull out one of the computers and read out the numbers.

"Apartment 518." She runs her finer down the list. "The monitor's probably from 1609. 518's monitor was only 16 inches - and he thief didn't take it."

I bet the owner didn't know whether to be glad or insulted. Apparently our boy here was being picky about what he stole. Taking only the best. 

I notice a pair of binoculars on the arm of an easy chair.

Right. I glance out the room's one window - straight down at the parking lot. And at the bus stop. Neat set up. Brown could sit easy and spot every big purchase that came into the building. With the field glasses he could even check the fine print. He'd know exactly who had what. If the new owner risked the elevator -which when carrying a heavy box they inevitably would - he could step out into the hall and read the floor lights.

Just a little patience waiting for the new owner to leave - and Brown had himself a new toy.

Humm. I bet the elevator indictors on this floor were still working. Maybe even recently - amateurly - repaired. I had noted that the hall lights were all on at this floor. Given the state of the rest of the building? Not likely a pure coincidence. Maybe I should see if the judge would go for a little 'community service'. Might be the best payback these people could hope for.

I catch a muttered obscenity from just outside the door, accompanied by a distinctly ominous crack of knuckles. 

Then again - maybe not. The community seems to be too eager to express it's own opinion of 'payback'.

By this time the prisoner van has shown up. Not often a happy occasion. That was enough to get the 'bangers out from their 'clubhouse'. Normally that would make this an even less happy occasion. But once we start reading out names from the stolen property list?

"Ms. Juana Garcia?" Amy calls out. "Apartment 714? Microwave oven?"

"Est mio!"

The crowd parts like a low-budget red sea, letting a gray-haired lady hustle forward waving her drivers license like a whip.

The crowd cheers.

A couple of signatures and she staggers off like a bingo winner. Which - according to the report - is how she got the oven in the first place. Tuesday night. Fourth Assembly of God. I grin at Amy. Brown should have known better. Never hassle with church ladies.

The young officer who came with the van looks a bit uncertain. "You know - we should take these into evidence?" It's a question - and a weak one.

"You want to carry it all down?" Not exactly an answer, but he reads me. "Besides." I smile as another tenant comes forward, this time to claim a half-size refrigerator. The man bows dramatically, acknowledging another round of applause, before hoisting his prize.

For once the combination of uniforms plus crowd doesn't seem to be leaning over into riot. If Brown had any friends - which from he single look of the apartment doesn't seem likely - he sure doesn't have them now. These thefts hit too close to home.

Next call is 809. The stereo with the killer speakers. Two young women who answer the cheers with a cry of "Gonna *rock out* tonight!" Which may mean the riot squad after all, if the neighbors have a taste for sleep. Oh well. With any luck Dick Grayson will be off duty. And Nightwing doesn't have to do crowd control. Lucky him.

"I'm sure the owners will promise to keep the evidence safe until trial." I glance back to the far side of the room, where Louise has been guarding her TV. She'd been the first down, but decided to wait when I had promised to help her get it back upstairs after the halls cleared. "That right, Ms. Bradford?"

"Sho nuf', honey." She gives the stained oak cabinet an affectionate pat. "I'm gonna keep a *real* close eye on this. Right from my recliner."

(vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv) (vVv)

It takes about three hours to get everything cleared. The last to go are the window units. Those were from the building next door. We might never have placed them if Brown hadn't talked. I suppose he got the idea that he needed to get at least the cops on his side. No one else was. Amy used the last phone calls before the line was disconnected to call the rightful owners over. The heat may have us moving slow, but those two people came fast enough. Motivation, I suppose.

When we're finished, all that's left is the sofa and the shelves. Everything else - even the easy chair and the lava lamps - turn out to have been stolen.

Not a warm sight to be coming home to. But then? Brown - or whatever his name will turn out to be - probably won't be coming back here any time soon. At least not if the chump has any survival instincts at all. From the comments of the more professionally familiar looking of his former neighbors, I'd personally advise Brown to plead guilty and hope this all adds up to enough to get him Blackgate. This crew gets picked up too often to make the local lock-up a very safe haven.

Sun is finally going down by the time we walk out. The cloud cover has rolled in. Bad luck. It would have helped during the day. At night? Unless we get real rain all that's going to do is seal in the heat like a city-sized pressure cooker.

Saturday looks like another rotten day. Amy and I will be back on traffic duty. Double shift.

But hey - at least I'm going to sleep well tonight.

 

The End

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©KKR 2011


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